[M] In the Den of Iniquity (Tom)

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Shae
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Mon Aug 19, 2019 5:49 pm

Bethas 26, 2719 | Late Afternoon
High Seas, Old Rose Harbor
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The strum of the guitar was soft, delicate sound humming through the smoky air. Small, dainty fingers barely touched the strings of the instrument, whispering across them. It wasn't a case of skill and it wasn't exactly by design as the raen was almost afraid to touch the strings, all too aware of how easy it was to hit a sour note and the gentleness of their playing also helped to hide their mistakes. If they used their whole hand, they had an easier time controlling Cordelia's pretty but now calloused fingers. As soon as it became necessary to bend the digits individually, to manouevre them with any kind of finesse, things became far more difficult.

Some days, it was simpler to do these things and puppet this body. Oh it certainly wasn't effortless but it was less like trying to hold onto something slippery while lacking the strength to have any sort of a decent grip. On the good days, they were less aware of the ways the joints in their fingers bent, all those little bones shuffling around as muscles pulled and the digits, the hands, the arms, the whole blasted corpse could be played as it ought to be. Oh the tunes that the raen played was a simple one and they never got into the true flow of life. They were too aware of everything that was necessary to produce what they wanted from the organic instrument and it was done mechanically rather than naturally. They weren't one with it, just as they weren't one with the guitar that rested on their trousered thighs.

It was rare that the control was good, that this fragile galdor was something that could be played in any way decently but when they were with Kit... The man could help them produce deliciously sweet symphonies, something about the pair together that produced a beautiful harmony between the raen and their inhabited body, the golly musician and the former wick seamster. But he wasn't here now and even then he couldn't help them with this. There was no way he could help their control although he could damn well unravel it.

The act of playing music without interference was their way to reclaim what they’d lost, to have a chance to find themself. It was a chance to discover exactly who and what they were now and they’d found a place where they could do it without being judged and without - they hoped - being in danger from Peregrine.

The location they’d settled on for their playing was called ‘High Seas’, a mix of bar and smoking den, opium being one of the big sellers but there was really a smorgasbord of drugs available whether you wanted to experience delight and pleasure or to forget. The kind of people who came in here weren’t the sort to go talking to anyone that Cordelia’s husband would know, humans and wicks of different shades and classes although none of them could be classed as being particularly prosperous. For those who were better off, there were far nicer joints than this so you weren't likely to find any galdori in here and very few of the Bad Brothers. It was a place they'd discovered in their wanderings and while their pretty Bastian, golly-seeming features made them stick out like a sore thumb, Shae felt oddly safe there. People might look but their gazes didn't tend to linger and soon their eyes were glazed over and they didn't care about anything much after that.

The raen was something of a curiosity. The soft music they played wasn't too disruptive to the customers and if anything, the gentle and repetitive rhythms seemed to soothe them. A dropped note or a sour twang of a string wasn't liable to bother them and unlike when they were around Kit, they didn't grow embarrassed and flustered and make further mistakes. The sound of the guitar did carry a little into the street though, a reasonably quiet thoroughfare that was off the main routes. High Seas itself only had a gentle hum, the languid occupants not that concerned with making conversation and noise. There was something alluring about the guitar, even with the simplicity of what the former wick drew out of it and so those who had reason to pass were sometimes drawn to peek in and then the sight of the unusual player enticed them further.

All in all, everyone was happy, especially Shae as they had peace and their galdor roommate hadn't managed to find them here. There was so little chance of that uncomfortable world encroaching on this sanctuary of theirs that they'd actually succeeded in relaxing over the past few days since they'd found this place.

At least until he walked in.

You could take a well-off galdor and stick them in rags but there were always indications of what they were. In the Rose where many of the residents were below or near to the poverty line, an impoverished look was common. This man had been getting his meals and they'd been decent ones. However, in spite of some obvious advantages, it was clear that he was tired, stressed even, a grey undertone to his skin tone, shadowing under the eyes and a slight slump to the shoulders betraying a world-weariness. His coat was too big for him and his clothes weren't of a good cut or quality but they still recognised him for what he was. What was more, there was something familiar about him.

The raen had glanced up automatically when he entered, the movement slow, natural while they released their pressure on a fret and ran their thumb lazily down the strings. The natural note of each string sang in the air, the transition from one to the other not perfect as they hadn't succeeded in making the movement smooth just yet but it wasn't unpleasant all the same. It was the last sound form the instrument though, every cell of the youth suddenly frozen in place as they assessed his look and came up with galdor. Their heart accelerated, their lungs wanting to follow the blood pump's example but Shae had to force themself to stay calm, not show that they were ready to hyperventilate; it made everything feel much worse. Their body screamed for air, brain insisting that they were going to suffocate, that they didn't have enough air and that if they didn't gasp it in-

But the man was familiar and that trapped them in indecision and uncertainty, not knowing if he was friend or foe. So they dropped their gaze, hoping that the recognition wouldn't work both ways and now cursing how unusual they were in this setting. Shaking fingers tried to trace out the shape of a chord across two of the frets but they couldn't move their fingers right. They were stiff, uncooperative and yet somehow loose at the same time, curling them at the joint difficult and then nearly impossible to make them stay in one position after that; it was like connections had been severed. They tried though. Calloused fingertips found the right spots on the tense strings, pushed down until the wood of the neck was felt beneath the aching tips, feeling the string slip under them as it bit into one side and then the other. They couldn't seem to get it directly under their fingers. The other hand skimmed over the strings, a dull buzz and twang occurring instead of the sound they'd intended.

They just needed to calm down. He wasn't here for them. He had other things to worry about besides them. They weren't of any interest.

At least that was what the former wick told themself.



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Tom Cooke
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Thu Aug 22, 2019 4:19 pm

High Seas Somewhere in the Rose
Late Afternoon on the 26th of Bethas, 2719
He couldn’t be sure, Tom kept reminding himself. It shouldn’t’ve been hard to remember – these days, he could seldom be sure of anything – but he kept tracing the words over and over in his head like a mantra. He couldn’t be sure; he didn’t know. He gripped the icy railing hard, the cold leaching through his gloves and into the thin bones of his fingers, making him shiver deeper into his coat. He stared down the frost-dusted stairs, into the darkness.

The door creaked, opening a crack and then rattling shut. Out came a soft murmur of conversation, the muffled gurgle of a hookah, and a warm updraft of a melody, plucked out on a guitar. Tom shut his eyes; he breathed in a brief whiff of opium, sweet and thick and vinegary, before the chill breeze snatched it away from him.

When he opened his eyes, a dazed-looking man in the shade of the door was pulling on his threadbare gloves one by one, painstaking-slow. A misshapen hat was already pulled low over his ears. As he climbed carefully up the stairs and tottered onto the street, tipping his hat to a passing carriage, the wind picked up; it scattered a few snowflakes in the gnarly, gray tangle of his beard. Tom watched his swaying back for a moment as he disappeared down the lane, blending into the late afternoon shadows.

Tom steadied himself, taking in another lungful of that bracing air. Blinking snowflakes out of his eyelashes, shaking off his reservations. He took the stairs carefully, holding onto the wobbling railing and then running his hand along the dank stones.

Now, with one hand round the doorknob, he could hear the guitar clearly. He couldn’t help but pause – like the ice’d got into his veins, like it was freezing him to his spot. He felt a mix of trepidation and satisfaction.

He’d found her, and it hadn’t taken much doing. In life, he’d rooted out lots of kov, kov as hadn’t wanted to be found; he hadn’t done it in awhile, but he still knew how – knew, now, that he did – and the knowledge sat in his bones, warm and solid, a reminder of who he’d been.

He’d tried the Dove, first, knowing that old Winters kept an eye on every new face – and, drunk as he was, didn’t have much of a price. That’d led him to the Moldy Quince, an old favorite haunt down by the waterfront. Though he knew Viggo’s lips’d be sealed, especially round a galdor, he also knew his brother, Mortimer, was less discerning; the press of a few coins in his clammy hand and he had a whole list of leads, which he’d crossed off, one by one, meticulous. It’d taken him a few days, but a serving girl at Wilton’s had told him to pay a visit to an old man they called Marlin, who’d been singing the praises of a pretty dark-haired wick who’d been playing at the High Seas.

Tom’d never been to the place, never even heard of it, but the description sounded right. Nobody knew her name, but she was distinctive enough, and that was what Tom’d counted on. The hacked-short hair, the hemmed trousers, the clumsy fingers. The porven. “Bit like yours,” Marlin’d said, offhand. “Your boch?”

He’d laughed, a shallow flutter in his warped, narrow ribs, dribbling in his beard. Tom hadn’t; Tom’d just shaken his head and taken his leave, a generous tip in his wake.

Her, he kept thinking. He’d been turning that over in his head, too. He remembered when he first met her, the way she’d stomped; he remembered how she’d called herself a man. He didn’t know. He’d never even considered it. Hell, he’d known one or two – he’d even thought, himself, maybe, that if he’d had the choice, if he’d known he’d had the choice – and for a raen – but there was no point thinking about that, either. Not now, he reminded himself. He didn’t know for sure; there was no way of knowing. No way but one.

When he pushed through the door, the warmth that washed over him was so welcome that he almost forgot where he was. He took his hat off, kicked the snow off his shoes quietly, dusted his coat. The last frost of Bethas still ached in his joints, and his hands were clumsy with it; he fumbled his hat, dropping it, clawing it up off the floor with a wince. He saw a teetering coat rack not far from the door, heavy with dark wool, but he wasn’t ready to let go of his coat yet. Instead, he pulled it closer about him, burying his hands deep in the baggy pockets.

The air was thick with that pleasantly pungent, incense-sweet smell. As he made his way toward the bar, weaving round the floor pillows, fingers tracing the backs of scattered chairs – not a whit disturbing their sprawled occupants – he noticed that something was missing. The guitar’d stopped.

By the time he took note of the silence, with its coughs and muffled whispers, the music had already started again. He caught that off-tune twang and winced. Tom didn’t dare look in the direction of the notes. Instead, he settled in at the bar, calling for his drink quietly.

It was only after he’d taken a few sips of his Gioran whisky that he turned, scanning the sea of glazed faces and drifting smoke over his shoulder. In the low, shifting lamplight, it was hard to make out features, but he found the guitar player almost immediately. He glanced quickly back at his whisky.

He waited a few more minutes. Being honest, he hadn’t expected it to be this hard. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He was holding onto his dusty tumbler so hard that his knuckles were white, and he couldn’t seem to get his hand to relax; the rush of blood in his ears – terror? Excitement? – was almost drowning out the guitar. He ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to breathe again.

And if he was right? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he thought was going to happen. He didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe she already knew what he was, and that was why she’d paused in her playing. Maybe she did have answers to his questions, only she didn’t want to answer them.

He was starting to feel like a fool, but there was only one way to find out.

Tom stood up, wincing at a twinge in his hip, and started to amble away from the bar with his drink. The whisky was settling on him; there was a cold, of course, that never left him, but it had warmed his blood a little, and the lingering bitterness of apah in his throat seemed to lend him courage. He’d never been short on that, he reminded himself, given a little whisky and not enough forethought. He was still that man.

As he drew in closer, though not close enough for the edges of their fields to brush, he tried to meet the wick’s eye. He inclined his head – tried a subtle, warm smile, but then stopped himself. He didn’t know how it’d look, and he wasn’t too good at warm smiles, not with this face. He raised a hand in a quiet greeting, then nodded over to a nearby table, where he sank into a seat with another wince. After one last look at the guitar player, he turned back to his whisky, though he kept an eye on her out of the corner of his eye.

And he hoped. He didn’t want to be hoping, didn’t understand why he was, but he hoped.
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Shae
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Sun Aug 25, 2019 5:01 pm

Bethas 26, 2719 | Late Afternoon
High Seas, Old Rose Harbor
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It was a coincidence. He might have looked their way but they were simply part of the furniture, an interesting distraction for a moment because they stuck out but hardly worth a second glance. When the raen risked a furtive look, they discovered that he was at the bar, apparently unconcerned with them. It allowed Shae to relax a little, shaping easy chords with their trembling fingers and striking nicer notes this time, languid, humming chords that were allowed to linger in the air. Each had a chance to resonate fully, fading to near nothingness before a new one was struck. The youth began to weave patterns between two chords, playing with quick and short and long and lingering in their strumming.

Long, long, long, short.

Chord switch.

Long, short, short, long.

Fingers hovered over the strings, ready to switch back to the previous chord as the humming died away. They chanced to look at the man again as they switched, small dent appearing between their brows as they creased. Was he really that familiar? Were they mistaking him for someone else, seeing familiarity where there was only similarity? But no, he was moving from the bar and as grey-blue eyes lingered, they picked up the features that they did in fact recognise. Golly at the Black Dove. The raen had been an total klutz in his presence and said something stupid - they remembered feeling embarrassed about something. It had been back in Ophus, he'd seemed a good guy - for a golly - and unexpected. He'd had a wonky field just like they had and he'd looked out of place in the Dove too, not as out of place as he looked here though but then they were well aware that they stuck out in here too.

Shae plucked strings with their left hand, their right working along the guitar's neck to press down at one point on one fret and then another, the notes changing mostly smoothly with only a little bit of a buzz when they failed to press down properly.

What was his name? Frederick? Franklin? Fran... Francis? Yeah, that sounded about right.

He seemed awkward, edgy even as he moved into the musician's field of vision. He was ambling along, really taking his time, much to Shae's chagrin. Maybe it was because they were so keen to be rid of the sight of him but he seemed to be moving too slowly. The galdor was visible for too long, hovering and it meant that the youth found themself glancing at him too much. They caught his eye by accident, hurriedly flicking it away again. When they happened to risk another furtive look, his own gaze seemed to linger in their direction. He was trying to be subtle about it, not staring at them or anything but it was clear that he wanted to grab Shae's attention.

Francis smiled, albeit briefly, and the raen's insides began to squirm with worry. The expression was smarmy for certain, maybe a little bit knowing as well. Gleeful. Why was this man they'd only met once looking at them in such a way? How many others had smiled at them in recent weeks and put them on edge? Not like this though. While there was definite paranoia and jumpiness in the wake of the attack by the thugs that Peregrine had sent, they had been human and wick so everyone gave them the willies right now. They'd been wondering how Cordelia's husband had known where they were, information of their whereabouts apparently out by late Intas. Had it been earlier? Had someone brought the information to Peregrine? To others? The lawyer might be the kind to employ the lower races but listen to them? No, a galdor seemed like a good source and now that he was in front of them, Shae had to wonder...

There was no Kit here though, no Delyth, no hope of someone stepping in to protect them when they could do nothing. They had no magic and while they might be getting a small amount of control over their field, winning the odd monic particle to their side, they couldn't cast to save their life - literally! They also had the overall strength of a small child, except that a child didn't have to stop their soul flying away when things got a little heated. Could they swing the guitar at his head and run? Well, they wouldn't have to swing hard, the air would build up more momentum than they could manage with their dainty fists and when it came to running, they could probably do a sprint and duck out of sight before it all got too much.

If the situation required it.

They might just be being paranoid. Maybe the man had recognised them and was hoping to renew their acquaintance, especially given that he was a stranger in Old Rose. Yes, that was probably it.

The musician tried to make themself relax, watching his little wave, the nod to the table and trying to shift their perspective. Not everyone was out to get them. They'd had plenty of perfectly okay encounters in the Harbor before this and it wasn't like they were alone anyway. It was fine. Everything would be fine. Besides, it didn't seem that aggressive or intimidating now, not when he sat down and wasn't looking at them directly. If anything, he looked as nervous as they felt which... probably meant that he was ill-at-ease here too. He was no doubt seeking a friendly face in this unfamiliar territory.

A few more soft strums and gentle plucks later, the former wick shifted the body of the guitar from their lap as they stood, holding it by the neck as they approached the table where the golly had seated himself. They leaned the instrument carefully against one chair and then did their best to slide into the last remaining free seat, not as nonchalant as they wanted to appear courtesy of trembling leg muscles.

Now that they were closer to him, they could feel his rather scattered field, in tatters like their own and the way it had been when they'd last met. That was one good thing at least; he couldn't use the mona against them either. And even if he was here for good, friendly reasons, the youth wasn't going to play the naive fool anymore; they were going to keep their wits about them.

"Hello again. It's... Francis, right? I'm pretty good with faces so I don't think I'm wrong. Black Dove, right?" Shae asked softly, cocking their dark head and peering at him from beneath long lashes. They wanted to study his face but were also nervous of doing so, wary and uncertain. "What's a kov like you doing in a den like this?" they queried, smirking slightly at the irony of someone who looked like them asking that.


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Tom Cooke
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Mon Aug 26, 2019 9:35 am

High Seas Somewhere in the Rose
Late Afternoon on the 26th of Bethas, 2719
The wick’d met his eye, and all he could do was wait. The mounting tension made him feel tight as a drum; he shifted in his seat and felt his back crack. He tapped his fingers on the side of his glass, watching a few slight tremors shudder through the dark whisky. He didn’t know, now, if it’d be better if she ignored him. If she’d missed the look, if she’d decided to pretend it was nothing, if it’d put her on edge instead of set her at ease. If she dusted, even – oes, if she vanished, and he didn’t have to figure out what to say. ’Cause now, he didn’t know. He didn’t know a godsdamn thing.

Behind him, she wove her way through a few more chords. The soft hum of fingertips against the guitar-strings, a little fumbling, set him at ease. Wasn’t the full, deep timbre of hama’s oud, but the air was heady with incense, and it was close enough. He shut his eyes, swallowing sour spittle.

When he felt that familiar porven tangle with his, he opened them. He’d forgot what it felt like. Clocking awful. A chill rippled up his spine, setting all the hairs on his arms, on the back of his neck, to stand and prickle. The mona in his own were disturbed at the best of times, but now they rioted; he could feel them jittering through his nerves, like a barber tapping on a sore tooth with something metal. Tom forced himself to stay still in his chair.

As she moved around him, he looked up at her. He tried not to stare, but now that he knew – or thought he knew – he couldn’t help but notice everything. The haphazard way she moved, the strain in the hand she held on the neck of that guitar. The tremble in her legs as they held her up, just strong enough to carry her across the floor and deposit her into the empty chair nearest him. The footfalls, even, a pina too heavy. Muffled against the ragged carpet, oes, but creaking through the floor.

Again, Tom forced himself to focus. What if he was wrong? He didn’t know anything; he didn’t know shit, he kept reminding himself. He sifted through those details, trying to look at them from a different angle. Maybe she was high. Drunk. Maybe it was her nerves, that quiver in her limbs. Maybe she had different reasons for that porven, for that furtive look. Maybe he’d spooked her.

Her speech was friendly enough, and she seemed to recognize him. She kept her voice soft. He started to relax, bringing his tumbler back to his lips, taking a long sip of Gioran.

The name Francis struck him like a backhand, and he spluttered whisky. Wiping his mouth, he took a deep, shuddering breath – then laughed, quiet and more than a little frayed.

“I, ah,” he stumbled, trying to process the rest of what she’d said. He scratched at the sparse stubble on his jaw, then pressed his fingertips to his left eyelid, trying to smooth out the twitch. “Uh. I’m, uh, I’m here to find you, actually.”

It was in his shock he’d fumbled those words out, unable to fish out any better. He didn’t know why he’d said it, and now that he had, it settled over them like a black cloud. He tapped the table between them with a hand. “Shit – epaemo. I’m sorry. I ain’t good at this,” he amended hastily, “I ain’t here to – I don’t mean any trouble, ye chen? It’s only, I ain’t used to hearin’ the name Francis. It ain’t my real name. Listen, I…”

Suddenly, the High Seas seemed to press in on him from all sides. Was all this smoke fucking with him? His face felt inordinately hot. A kov nearby – close, too godsdamn close – shifted in his sprawl, pushed himself up in his chair and took another drag on his pipe; the smell thickened in the air. The place felt too quiet, despite all the noise in Tom’s head. Despite the cacophony their jangling fields seemed to be making. He cast about for prying eyes –

He met the gaze of a man at an adjacent table, propped up in an old armchair with torn, stained upholstery. Rather, he met the worn soles of the kov’s boots, swaying back and forth, heels against the table; then he met his eyes, gold-rimmed green underneath the heavy hoods of his eyelids. The eyelashes fluttered once, twice, and a sleepy grin spread out across his face. At Tom’s stare, he just grinned, then shut his eyes, settling back. A little drool leaked into his beard.

The set of Tom’s jaw trembled a little. He tried to steady himself, turning his attention back to Shae. His brows drew together. “Listen, I’m bad at this,” he repeated. “I need to ask a question that’ll sound moony, an’ I swear to the Circle I ain’t strung out or drunk off my erse. You don’t got to answer it. You can leave, an’ never think of it again. But I got to ask it. Boemo?”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sun Sep 15, 2019 4:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Shae
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Sun Sep 15, 2019 10:40 am

Bethas 26, 2719 | Late Afternoon
High Seas, Old Rose Harbor
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He was probably trying to be furtive; it wasn't working out too well. They were already highly aware and with him, their state of vigilance had increased, every probing look and curious glance blazing across their skin. They grew hot and uncomfortable, resisting the urge to squirm in their seat as their skin flushed. They quickly cooled, those large grey eyes skimming over them frightening Shae no end; the hair on their arms and the back of their neck prickled and they had poorly suppressed a shiver. They could smile but it was thin around the edges, tense. Their lips were stretched in a nervous rictus that had been forced out of them in an attempt to seem unaffected by his presence, not intimidated; they couldn't even lie with their facial expressions. Their own eyes were opened too wide, fixed, hardly blinking like a prey animal frozen before a potential predator.

The uncomfortable vibration of the irritated mona between them hardly helped matters, the particles seeming to buzz and crackle resentfully around them. More than once, the raen had wondered whether or not the particles could and would attack them. Given the current friction between the two porven fields, the possibility of retaliation seemed far more likely than usual. Once again, the youth wondered how the man had ended up with such a poor relationship with the mona that it had scattered so violently and haphazardly. They knew how their own magical dysfunction had come about but then it wasn't as if their situation was a common one. They didn't think there was anyone else like them; Shae was a mistake, an aberration. There were probably plenty of other reasons for a field to go pear-shaped; galdori and their magic were clocking complicated after all!

His splutter had their spine tensing, shoulders hunching forward even as they shrank back from him, wondering what they'd said that had prompted such a response. It had been innocuous, harmless, really. Was it a guilty response? Had he expected them to have forgotten him? The former wick didn't know what to make of that at all but they made themself hold their ground, determined not to go skittering away with their tail between their legs. They swallowed, trying to clear their throat of something viscous and unpleasant. It seemed to clog their windpipe, restricting their breathing it seemed, making it difficult and uncomfortable.

The laugh that followed did nothing to assuage their fears, the raen tensing that little bit more, heels lifting from the ground as they prepared to bounce up on their toes. The tremors in their legs only increased, the muscles that they had tentative control over in situations like this slipped closer to possessing lives of their own. When he announced that he was there for them, had actually sought them out, the need to bolt translated very poorly to uncooperative legs which took in the command to move but lacked the coordination to do so effectively. Instead, one knee slammed up into the underside of the table, painful vibrations moving through rattled bones, and the wood itself seeming to jump. With gritted teeth, Shae rubbed a trembling hand over the injury in an attempt to soothe the ache. There was also a nervous smile flitting around the corners of their mouth, fully aware that their response had been rather obvious.

If the aim here was too intimidate then it was all too clear that it had worked.

It was a good thing that they had smacked their knee - even though that was likely to leave a bruise come tomorrow - because it meant that the raen hadn't had a chance to make a break for it and thus was able to hear what he said or rather how he said it.

His accent had altered, the Tek slipping readily from his lips in the way that it slipped free when Shae was particularly distressed and the self-censorship was lost. It was unusual for a galdor but it also sounded like his natural way of speaking, or more natural than how he'd been speaking before at any rate. Whatever this was now, this was truth. This was what Francis - not that his name was Francis and they remembered now how he'd stuttered it out in the Dove like an alias - really was. Clearly he wasn't what he appeared to be.

Just as Shae wasn't what they appeared to be.

The teenager found themself uncomfortable for a new reason, some recognition going through them on some level that they weren't prepared to face just yet. Instead, they stared at him, eyes suddenly watery as if the mere act was a supreme effort, their lips trembling.

This strange man had sought them out on purpose, a man who had been a vague acquaintance before and now didn't even seem to be that. Whoever this was, he was a stranger wearing the same face but what lay beneath... it hadn't changed but it obviously wasn't what they'd thought was under there. That was far, far too familiar and the uneasiness multiplied, something bitter and nauseating crawling up Cordelia's pretty little throat.

They didn't have to answer his question. Hell, he didn't even have to ask it. The young musician could just say that they weren't interested, that they didn't even want to hear what he had to say and go back to their playing. Except that it wouldn't be that simple. They couldn't simply return to their previous perch as if nothing had happened, especially if he stayed here. Simply knowing he was here would throw them off and so they'd be better off going home. They didn't much fancy leaving here while this galdor was evidently interested in them. What if he followed them? What if he didn't really take no for an answer?

But there was also some curiosity here. He'd sought them purposefully which would have taken no small amount of effort on his part and he was trying - albeit poorly - to present himself as non-threatening, someone who meant no harm. And whatever he wanted to ask... it couldn't be anything that they could predict because nothing the raen thought of could be said to be 'moony'. So what could it be? What was his purpose here and why did it involve Shae?

They swallowed, tongue moving with difficulty in their mouth as they tried to dredge up some saliva. So dry. They licked chapped lips and managed to squeeze out a sound that couldn't even pass for a whisper. They cleared their throat.

"Oes... you can ask your moony question. You don't seem off your head but if you do anything I don't like, I'll... I'll set the owner on you. Me and him, we have an arrangement. Mutual like," they admitted, voice quivering as they delivered their threat in speech that had become more noticeably colloquial, less precise and proper. It wasn't how they'd been taught to speak to galdori, wasn't how they'd been taught to talk to people in general but they were distressed right now and it was telling.

"What do you want to ask me, Fran- whoever you are?"


Last edited by Shae on Thu Sep 26, 2019 5:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Sep 17, 2019 9:55 pm

High Seas Somewhere in the Rose
Late Afternoon on the 26th of Bethas, 2719
Bang!

The table wobbled on its uneven legs, letting out a couple of pitiful pops. Tom stiffened; he just managed to keep from jumping out of his godsdamn skin. The glass rattled against the tabletop, whisky jumping halfway up to the lip. The dreamy kov a table over snorted, his glassy eyes widening for a few seconds – still looking at nobody in particular, ’course – before he settled back, his head lolling again.

Shit, Tom thought. Shit, shit, shit. He glanced down, realized that his hand was tight round the tumbler, tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He relaxed his grip, but he couldn’t abate the fluttery race of his heart. He felt a buzzing fill up his head, like the mona in their twin porvens had crawled inside his skull. It was like a knife on a knife or a whetstone on a whetstone.

He hadn’t thought of that, before he’d come here, looking for some kov he didn’t even know. Kov or chip. Some stranger in a stranger’s skin, maybe, and that was what’d happen in the best case; that was what’d happen if he was right, and the chances, even then, were slim. He hadn’t thought of any of it.

And if this Shae was a raen? Tom had thought she – they – whoever the fuck they’d been – Tom’d thought they’d be older than him. Thought they’d be like Ezre’s ma, aware, decades or a century or more older than him; he thought they’d know more than he did. Now, looking at them –

“Ne, ne, epaemo,” he murmured, softer, a little shaky, knotting a fist in the old wool of his trousers underneath the table.

The chip’s eyes were rimmed with red, glistening at the edges. Big, light grey eyes, like Anatole’s, he couldn’t help but notice. Their lips were trembling. He thought of how he’d felt when he’d first stolen what he could of the incumbent’s and dusted to the Dives, to a laoso little flat and a job at the mill, to a bizarre, squalid season in a body he didn’t know. He thought of how he’d reacted when Constable Delacore’d sat down next to him at the Stag and recognized his face. He’d spat and hissed like a scared cat.

He still didn’t know, he reminded himself. Even with the mona fizzing and whining and dancing where their fields caprised, he didn’t know. How could he?

Whoever this was, he had to give ’em credit. If that’d been an attempt to get up and dust, they took the failure well enough. They looked at him squarely, head-on, and they cleared their throat and threatened him. In Tek, no less.

The thought of it, of this little lass threatening his own frail toffin erse, wrung another wan, frayed laugh out of him. The way they’d said mutual-like. Gods, he thought, coughing, if he was wrong about this, he’d eat his boots. It was so strange, to be so sure and so afraid.

Tom scratched his head, waving a thin hand. “Please,” he said. “I didn’t mean to – must’ve scared the shit out of you. Epaemo. Whatever it’s worth to you, I don’t know nothin’ about you”about the host, he might’ve said; he felt another thrill of anxiety – “or nothin’, hey?”

He paused, suddenly at a loss for words. He scratched his jaw, swallowed a lump. Washed down another with a long drink, shutting his eyes momentarily, steeling himself in the smoky dark. When he opened them, he looked at the wick levelly. His mouth drew down into a frown; his face was a slack, tired, pale mask.

“I remembered you from the Dove. You an’ me, we both got fucked-up fields, we ain’t – we ain’t what we look like we are,” he said finally. “But you give me the word, I dust. Promise. You don’t got to set Randall an’ his boys on me, agreement or not. I just never met anyone like me.” He bit his lip. “Did you – this –”

He gestured to the dark-haired, grey-eyed wick, to the entirety of Shae, with one shaky hand. Then, he gestured to himself.

“This face ain’t mine,” he fumbled. “I mean – I used to be somebody else. My soul used to be in somebody else, an’ not the way the Cycle’s supposed to go. That sound – familiar?”

He was well aware of the risk he was taking, but being honest, he couldn’t’ve picked a better place himself. If this wick wasn’t a raen, let her think he was high off his fucking erse. What’d he have to lose?
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Wed Oct 02, 2019 5:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Shae
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Sat Sep 28, 2019 1:26 pm

Bethas 26, 2719 | Late Afternoon
High Seas, Old Harbour
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They'd thought they were the one in danger here, the one who had a reason to be afraid. However, after they banged their knee on the table, they couldn't fail to see just how scared he was, how nervous. Shae wouldn't have believed it if they weren't looking right at him but he seemed as edgy as them, more so perhaps. What the fuck did he have to be frightened of? He hadn't found himself choking to death on his own blood on the street while chaos reigned around him. He hadn't gone from a strong strapping lad who would have towered over most galdori to a wee slip of a lass that a good gust of wind could knock over. If he got too much of a shock, too much terror gripping his soul then he wasn't going to fly apart at the seams, losing all grip on reality and life.

What the fuck did he have to worry about?

The galdor man looked scared enough to slip his skin, little tics popping up all over as the terror writhed under the surface, something that Shae could read even without a field flinging emotions around him. It was crawling across his vision, vibrating across taut skin that gripped the glass too tight and maybe it was because they had dealt with fear so much these last few months but they could see it all too clearly. Possibly, it had something to do with the fact that it was bleeding from him, so strong that probably most of these drug-addled folks could see it and some of them didn't look as if they could recognise their own hands.

The pair were a collection of frayed nerves and it certainly didn't help the energy between them, the fizz of mutual anxiety hardly a soothing environment. And yet he could laugh - obviously not with any real mirth - but he still managed a chuckle here and there, born of awkwardness and uncertainty more than anything else. Whatever he'd come to ask Shae about, they doubted that it was actually a laughing matter given his jumpiness. But what could be so strange and yet so important that he'd sought them out specially? They were curious but all the same, they might prefer to be elsewhere right now rather than getting answers. The raen had a bad feeling about this.

He commented that he knew nothing about them, seeming to repeat himself as he emphasised knowing nothing. The dark brows of the seeming-Bastian tugged together, unsure if they were meant to read some additional meaning into his words because if they were, it wasn't coming through. In fact, the emphasis made them edgy, wondering if he actually meant to convey the opposite.

They wrung their hands in their lap, the skin dewy with sweat. Their body seemed to be prickling with dampness in a few places now, chilling them despite the warmth of the smoking den. Actually, their temperature bounced up and down, one second too hot, the next second freezing. They felt sick and the sweet acrid smoke that they breathed in wasn't helping the former wick at all. What had been a reasonably pleasant environment before now felt claustrophobic, even their heart - Cordelia's heart - seeming to be in too small of a space as it bounced madly within their chest. Was it possible to die of fright? Maybe they weren't that bad, maybe that wasn't even physically possible but if it was, they felt as if they were close to finding out. One emotional shove in the right direction and they'd probably know for certain.

The wait didn't ease matters. Whatever he'd come to say, the words wouldn't come, not at first. Despite what it must have taken to come here, to seek them out, despite the fact that he'd said that they could leave, Shae couldn't help wondering if he was the one who would end up backing out. It was a supreme effort for him, the man girding himself in a way that was all too visible to the youth. Their eyes met, grey to grey and for one moment, there seemed to be a horrible disconnect between what was in his gaze and the face it came from. It was probably just a trick of the place, the various fumes in the air fucking with their senses, shadows moving in strange patterns but his face became a waxen mask, a false face that seemed to be covering something else entirely. There was a horrible moment where it looked as if he might pull it off or it might slough off of its own accord.

Unconsciously, the raven-haired teenager leaned away, the chair pressing hard into their back.

Somehow, it got worse. Paranoia had been a companion of theirs for awhile now but sometimes words did carry great import.

"-we ain’t what we look like we are."

They could make no remark, couldn't laugh it off or make a denial. Their voice was gone. All their control was gone. If they couldn't still feel the body then they would have thought that they'd lost it, all their strings cut as they found themself paralysed. But they knew that the strings were still attached; Shae simply couldn't react. He'd hit too close to the mark and the raen was too shocked to cope.

"I just never met anyone like me."

Their pulse was racing in their throat but their windpipe appeared to have jammed. Aside from their heart, which felt like it should have been moving their chest in a noticeable fashion, there was no movement. No rise and fall as they drew in air because they weren't drawing it in. A pressure was building within their ribcage, a sense that it would burst apart at any moment so that the air that was currently stilled in their lungs could escape and they could stop drowning on their waste carbon dioxide.

When he dropped his revelation, physical functions came back all at once although mentally, they were a whirlwind of emotion. Shae was suddenly running on pure animal instinct, fight or flight response slammed hard towards the flight end of the spectrum. The air stored in their lungs whooshed out and nose and mouth tried to drag in a fresh lungful in a wheezing gasp. It was dizzying, disorientating but they just needed it in, needed the energy, the capability. But it wasn't clean in here, the atmosphere polluted with all sorts of waste products from the drugs: the smoke from the opium pipes, the smoke from the Mugrobi in the corner smoking cannabis and any number of other things to which this little den catered.

While they filled their lungs with anything they could pull into them, the youth shoved away from him so hard that they sent their chair toppling backwards, legs useless even as adrenaline coursed through them. No bones. Instead, they found themself slammed hard into the floor, the world spinning wildly as they tumbled, a tangle of limbs as their legs flew over their head. They made an attempt to right themself, disorientated by their unexpected heels over head manoeuvre and feeling the soul tethers to Cordelia's body straining sickeningly.

Shae was left gasping on the ground, aching and uncoordinated, a fish out of water. There was the taste of metal in their mouth - they might have inadvertently bitten their tongue - and their lungs were on fire like they were actually drowning in air. Their grey eyes were wild, darting around before they found Tom and yet somehow managing not to focus on him. They nearly jumped out of their skin when a hand came to rest on their shoulder, another helpful hand extended but it was only the barman coming to aid a damsel in distress.

Except that they weren't a fucking damsel, were they?

Gaze darting, they tentatively accepted the offered hand, mumbling something largely incoherent in response to his queries.

Were they okay?

Mmhm.

Was this man bothering them?

Nuuuuh.

They shook their head, the movement stiff, the raen feeling unnaturally disconnected from the motion. Trembling, suddenly unsure as their higher brain functions kicked in slowly, sluggishly. Circle save them, what were they doing? He said that they were the same, this man recognised them for what they were and apparently they weren't unique, they weren't alone.

Why the fuck were they trying to bolt from that? They couldn't help remembering at that moment what Kit had screamed at them when they'd argued.

"-all you ever do is run, and hide, and run away again."

It was true though, wasn't it?

The barman supported them to the table, quickly finding that if he let go that the youth wobbled alarmingly. Only when Shae had the table for support did he risk releasing them so he could pick up their chair.

"Are you sure..." the whispered question came, eyes flicking to Tom.

The raen dredged up something like a smile, least they felt the corners of their lips twitch.

"Yeah. Fine," they whispered, the words thick, difficult to manage. They lowered themself into the chair, hunched as they tried to hug their knees without actually drawing them up to their chest. They found the face of this kindred spirit, eyes huge and haunted although their features were tired, drained.

"How? Field? Thought maybe gollies- Their magic's stronger, thought your one-" they broke off with a shiver, the words too confused, disjointed. A blur of vision as tears swam but didn't fall. They somehow made themself smaller, curling in on themself like a child. To some people, they were a child but in this moment, they felt it as they gazed at him with huge pupils. Shae didn't know what to do.

They wanted Kit.


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Tom Cooke
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Sat Nov 16, 2019 11:19 pm

High Seas Somewhere in the Rose
Late Afternoon on the 26th of Bethas, 2719
He should’ve known what was coming – but he didn’t, and more fool him, gods damn it. He didn’t move to follow when Shae shoved back from the table, the chair-legs groaning against the old wood; he froze, stiff and still. But when the poor nanabo leapt away like a startled deer, getting their legs all tangled up underneath them and crashing to the floor, he just about leapt up from his seat. He wasn’t much more graceful: he’d got his leg hooked round the chair’s, and he stumbled and jarred the table with an elbow, and winced.

He didn’t have much choice but to sink back into his seat. The barkeep’d come over, fussing over the heap of Shae on the floor, and Tom didn’t think that stunt had been anything but incriminating. Thankfully, the man was more concerned with the pina wick than with Tom, and after a brief, muddled exchange, he was helping them – her – them back to the table.

When the keep met his eye, all he could give him was a sheepish half-grin. I don’t know, kov, he tried to say with his eyes. But Shae, to his surprise, was slurring something noncommittal in his defense – and for now, it was enough to banish the old kov back behind the bar. He retreated through the wafting smoke, round the cluttered shapes of mismatched furniture and drifting patrons, but Tom thought he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, and he reckoned he was on thin ice.

So it was. He couldn’t say he blamed him; he couldn’t say he’d’ve blamed Shae for playing the distressed damsel and having him sic his kovs on him. He knew what he looked like, and he knew what Shae looked like, and –

It was funny, in that moment, thinking about it. He stared across the table at Shae, having just regained their seat. It was funny, thinking he had no idea who was behind the face, behind those eyes; thinking Shae had no idea who was behind his. He didn’t even know it was a wick, not proper; the kov – or chip – or what the hell ever – talked like a wick and had a field, but that fine-featured, delicate face leaned toward the golly half, and Tom knew he could make Anatole pass for a tsat on a good day. None of it told him anything. He felt a thrill.

When Shae spoke again, he shifted in his seat, brow furrowing. He still couldn’t be sure; they spoke of fields, of golly fields, of backlash – it seemed like they knew, like they’d understood him, but he couldn’t be sure. Their eyes were big, and their face was slack and fair ashen.

Tom licked his lips, cleared his throat. He tried to find his accent again. “It ain’t backlash,” he offered, trying a smile. “Take a hell of a backlash, even golly backlash, to make somethin’ like this. Look, I don’t know about you, but I ain’t never cast a spell –”

Their posture rounded; he could see tears budding in their eyes. Looked like they were trying to make themselves small as possible, like they were trying to shrink back into their chair, vanish into the old wood. Tom felt his throat tighten. The smile slid off his face, and he sat up in his chair.

“Oh, hell, I didn’t… If you want me to leave you in peace, like I said, all you got to do is say so, hey?” He shifted in his seat, glanced back through the thicket of smoke and tassels, the dizzying array of faded, clashing patterns – paisley and vines, fur rugs and wing-backed chairs, all worn and stained with smoke – toward the coat-rack and the stairs, disappearing up into dark. He looked back at Shae, and he blinked.

He folded his hands on the tabletop, staring intently across the table at the – at whoever was there. “If I’m wrong, I – epaemo,” he said softly. His eyes flicked over the guitar, then back up to Shae’s wide grey eyes. “But I promise I ain’t what I look like I am, an’ I ain’t come here to do you harm. Look at me,” he added, with an uncertain grin, "how long you think this toffin'd last in a fight?"
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Shae
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: Too pretty for you
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Wed Nov 20, 2019 1:34 pm

Bethas 26, 2719 | Late Afternoon
High Seas, Old Rose Harbor
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Had he tried to follow them? He looked like he’d tried to follow them. To his credit, he looked concerned, watching them intently through it all. They didn’t know if he’d moved to help during their accidental acrobatics because they’d been far too disorientated to take note of such things when they’d tumbled but he was firmly in his seat by the time their senses had returned.

How much time had actually passed between his words, their violent response and their unsteady return? It couldn’t have been that long but he didn’t seem shocked or anything, didn’t seem as if-

Maybe more than mere moments had passed and he’d had a chance to calm down and everything. Maybe Shae had blacked out in the midst of their dizzying turns; they felt sluggish enough as if they’d only recently returned to awareness after being asleep. There was a disjointed feel to everything, a surreality as if they were dreaming. They might just as easily have inhaled too many fumes in this place and they were seriously tripping.

Could this just be a bad trip? They hoped so because then they could come down from it and they could laugh at how silly they’d been, about how silly their brain-altered imaginings had been and they could carry on as if nothing had happened, vowing never to come to this noxious-aired place ever again. But it didn’t feel as if they were high, even if the situation was too unreal to be anything like truth.

They said things but it felt as if someone else was saying them, a distance between themself and their own disjointed speech. The man seemed to have heard though and he began talking about fields and backlash as if he couldn’t see the erstwhile wick teetering on the edge of some sort of abyss in front of him. They certainly felt precarious all right although they tried to pay attention to what he was saying, the shock of the situation making them feel everything and yet feel numbed at the same time; the contradiction seemed to exist inside of them regardless of how illogical it might seem.

Not backlash. They’d been wrong but they’d already realised that in the last couple of minutes.

They were beginning curling into themself when he was talking about casting and a small, distant part of the raen wondered if he’d broken off before saying more about a type of spell or if the sentence had broken off naturally because the man had never cast. The teenager had hardly ever cast so it wasn’t as if low magic usage was strange but… not at all? No, that didn’t fit with someone who had a field. The thought didn’t continue because the rest of their brain had become rather preoccupied with simple functions like looking at the man’s face as the smile slid off it. To his credit, he looked abashed now that he’d realised the effect he was having on them.

Shae thought that he was trying to be kind but he looked too intense. Maybe that was why his gaze seemed suddenly hesitant to light on them; he didn’t want the youth to see the hunger in his eyes, the need.

They still felt as if they were looking at him from a distance, shaky legs drawn up to their chest (when had they done that?) and hugged tightly around the knees while they peered at him over their tops. They gave a minute shake of their head to indicate that he didn’t have to leave. If he was like them then they wanted to know but they also… didn’t want to know.

"Don’t. I- Don’t," Shae whispered, shining eyes fixed on his face. Their teeth found their bottom lip and they bit, feeling it and yet… it didn’t hurt as much as it should have until there was a sharp pain as air kissed raw skin and a salty metallic taste slicked it. They licked it slowly, the movement almost more painful than the wound. Their mouth was so dry, slightly cracked at the corners and they could feel a swell on their tongue, a dull throb where they’d bitten that in their fall.

Shae was rather a mess.

"Drink," they whispered before clearing their throat and saying it a bit louder. They were feeling a bit calmer or at least, things didn’t seem as distant; the dull roar of their blood had diminished somewhat so they could hear better through it now. They remained in their foetal crouch, limbs still locked solidly and protectively in place but some colour had returned to their face.

"Toffin…" they tasted the word, vaguely familiar in sound but unknown in meaning. They regarded him owlishly, trying to determine what it meant. He looked… galdor. Middle-aged. Healthy. He has the health of someone who had a good way of life, well-off. It didn’t mean galdor, they knew that one — jent — unless this was an alternative. The word applied to this man though or, rather, to his body.

"You look like… a toffin?" they hazarded, knowing that what they were seeing was no more the person they were speaking to than Cordelia was the person that Tom was speaking to right now. So not middle aged, not golly, not a man, which? Was he — they — none of the above?

They managed a timid smile, arms loosening their death grip so the teenager could reach up to press a hand against their lip, which had started again. "You’d last longer than I would," Shae pointed out, chuckling weakly, a nervous edge to the sound. It was a joke obviously. Well, it was a joke assuming he didn’t actually mean them harm. It wouldn’t be very funny otherwise and it wasn’t as if they were revealing anything he didn’t already know; he could see them after all and he’d also seen them try and fail to run away twice.

"So… you aren’t a toffin and I’m not… I’m not this," they stated, gesturing to themself before going back to using both hands to hold their knees close. They still felt as if they needed some sort of barrier between the pair.

"If you aren’t… aren’t a toffin than wh-what are you? And…wh-what’s a toffin?" they asked quietly, face growing dusky with a blush. They we’re starting to look at bit more normal now.


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